


Gimme Shelter

by SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Trapped together by circumstances, Two Assholes in Quarantine, VMTAP20
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24934618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: When Veronica dumps her live-in boyfriend during quarantine, she needs somewhere to live.Logan just wants his space back.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 96
Kudos: 150
Collections: LoVe In The Time Of Quarantine





	Gimme Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Started this in back in March, but decided to break it up into chapters for Trope-a-Palooza. 
> 
> Forgive me readers, for starting new stories when I have so many unfinished ones.

It's a little past midnight. Day twelve of quarantine. The blinds are drawn and a sultry Fiona Apple track curls like smoke through the mounted speakers.

Logan sits on the living room floor, left knee bent. Lightly swirls his glass of scotch, and contemplates the fact that he’s definitely going to fuck his best friend.

He should feel more reluctant, right? More fearful. More... _Do we dare risk a twenty year friendship, for the sake of sex?_

After a week-long battle against his conscience and his libido, shouldn’t this feel a little like defeat?

It doesn’t.

Instead, he’s...calm. Completely at peace.

_Why bother fighting the inevitable?_

"Are you going to stare at those cards all day?" Veronica interrupts his reverie, "Or are you going to take your turn?"

Logan smirks, drags his gaze over her body. "Actually, I was staring at your tits."

"Play your cards right mister, and maybe you'll have _other_ things to stare at." She bobs her eyebrows and sets her beer on the coffee table between them.

Logan rolls his eyes. "That is _literally_ , the objective of strip poker." He considers his hand one more time, then drops the cards face down on the coffee table. "I fold."

"Yes!" Veronica fist-pumps!

She sits cross-legged on a gray velvet floor pouf, wearing nothing but black cotton bikini underwear and pigtails. Watches with a hungry gleam in her eyes as he sets down his drink and rises to his feet.

He still can't believe this was her idea. That she'd brazenly flung her lacy black bra at him after only the second hand, while her pants, socks, and shoes were still in play.

Yeah, they're definitely going to fuck tonight.

He bends over, teases her by pushing his one remaining sock down around his ankle. She responds with a disgruntled little nose scrunch. Until he stands back up, hooking both thumbs in the waistband of his apple red boxer briefs.

Veronica’s sharp intake of breath as he shoves them to the ground, makes it all worth it.

## Seven Days Earlier

### Day 5 of Quarantine

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Logan wakes to the sound of stomping feet above him. A slamming door.

He sits up, rubs his eyes, pushes the display button on the bedside clock: 1:23 AM. He’s been asleep for less than an hour.

_What the fuck?_

Shuffling into the bathroom, he relieves himself. Sings the chorus of Mr. Brightside in his head, as he soaps up his hands. Long enough to kill a virus.

Long enough to kill any hopes of falling back asleep.

Out in the kitchen, he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, pressing it to his forehead for a few blissful seconds, before twisting off the lid and gulping down half of the contents.

The house is hotter than fuck - almost sweltering - and the AC won’t turn on.

Frankie G, his regular HVAC guy, is social-distancing, and no amount of begging can lure him back out of his house.

Logan grabs a small leather folio from the cabinet drawer closest to the back door, flips it open to a list titled "Mary", and adds a new item.

**#4 - Find an HVAC technician (ANY) and make an appointment ASAP. Bribery is acceptable.**

Through the door’s large window, Logan catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Something skittering furtively across the driveway.

_Dammit!_

He flicks on the back porch light, cursing whatever benevolent impulse made him purchase an up/down duplex in _this_ skunk and raccoon-infested neighborhood. Cursing the masked bandit, who's already launched three invasions on the garbage cans, and cursing his upstairs tenant, who - despite being asked not to _dozens_ of times - keeps turning off the motion-activated floodlight when he returns from walking the dog at night.

Mostly, it's the latter.

Unlocking the door, Logan steps out onto his small, covered, back porch. Descends four stairs to the bottom step, and looks around.

_Where are you, Swiper?_

Did the light scare him off? Or is the little bastard biding his time in the dark shadows cloaking the tenant parking spots on his left? The area that would be lit up right now, if _somebody_ had left the floodlight switched on.

A light breeze curls around his legs, and Logan adds another item to Mary’s list .

**#5 - Find some kind of eviction loophole for passive-aggressive dickheads who can't follow instructions.**

He smirks, momentarily satisfied just to see it in writing, then sighs, scribbles it out, and adds.

**#5 - Hire an electrician to install a second switch for the floodlight in my apartment.**

On his way back inside, Logan plucks his swim trunks and wetsuit from the side railing where he’d draped them to dry this morning, carries them into the bathroom and shoves them down the laundry chute.

He returns to the kitchen, turns off the porch light, and guzzles more water, surreptitiously watching for Swiper to make another appearance.

Above him, another door slams. More stomping feet. Voices raised in argument.

The clock on the microwave reads 1:46 AM.

_Assholes._

Tossing his empty bottle in recycling, Logan slips into his ergonomic, massaging flip-flops, crosses the kitchen to the side entrance, twists the lock, and steps out onto the green, astroturf-covered landing (one more eyesore he hasn't gotten around to replacing in the six years he's lived here).

He can't make out what the squabble is about - the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs dampens individual words - but it's clearly a doozy of a fight.

And long overdue.

He descends four stairs to the driveway-level landing, double-checks the two deadbolts on the exterior door, and switches the floodlight back on.

The _hum_ of a heavy-duty fan floats up from below, and Logan peeks around the corner where the stairs double-back, ducking low to better see down into his finished basement (rare in California, and he’s thankful for it, every day). Other than two nightlight/air-fresheners illuminating his home gym and the laundry area, all the lights are off. _For once._ He leaves the fan running.

Returning to his own residence, he’s in the process of closing the door when a lock unclicks above him. Hinges squeak, and a flurry of feet descend.

A thick snout pushes through the seven-inch opening, followed by a hundred pounds of wagging canine.

"Pony Girl!" Logan grins wide, and gives her scritches behind both ears. "Did you sneak out to visit Daddy? Who can blame you with all that noise, huh?"

The dog tilts her head, and he chooses to believe she's saying, _'Right?'_

He swings the door back open, peering upward as he leans back against the frame.

Veronica stands at the top of the stairs, wearing black yoga pants, a gray cotton tank top, and a homicidal expression. She carries a white laundry basket in both hands, and is attempting to close her apartment door with her right pinky finger.

Logan sighs. _Why tonight?_

It’s not that he minds sharing the washer and dryer with her. The basement only has hookups for a single set, and he told her when they moved in that she was welcome to use them at any time. She’s been considerate about it - for the most part - doing her laundry at night, with her own supplies, and emptying the machines before he needs to use them.

The problem is her unfortunate tendency toward unbalanced loads.

When the washer starts booming and banging and dancing across the basement floor, she’s too far away to hear it.

It’s Logan, the insomniac in the first floor apartment who ends up losing even _more_ sleep. He's the one forced to run down the basement to redistribute the weight load and _make it stop, for the love of God._

Veronica finally manages to get the door closed and turns around, momentarily freezing at the sight of him.

"Logan." She exhales, fakes a smile, and starts down the stairs. "Good. Now, I won't have to wake you up."

"You can see me?" He holds one hand in front of his face, squints at his palm. "Cause, I was legitimately starting to believe I'd turned invisible."

"You wish." She shoves the basket into his hands. Clean laundry, it would seem, from its April-Fresh scent. "Just...put it anywhere."

Logan sets it down on the landing between them.

 _Pained sigh_. "Except there."

Heavy feet pound above them, and the upstairs door flings open.

" _Really_ , Veronica?" Piz stands, backlit in the open doorway, wearing a set of striped button-up pajamas from 1953.

She doesn't even turn her head. "Do. Not. Speak. To. Me."

_Yes! Tell him, girl!_

"Sure, go running to Logan.” He sneers, flings his hands out in agitation. “Just like always."

"That's the plan."

"Um..." Logan lifts a finger and steps out onto the landing, nudging the basket aside with his foot. "' _...just like always'_ would imply that Veronica and I are friends. And where I come from, friends don't ignore friends for a whole month, for no damn reason."

"We come from the same place, dumbass. Ten minutes down the road."

"See?" Gaze still locked on Veronica, Piz waves a hand in Logan’s general direction. "You can't even treat your so-called best friend like a human being."

"Wow.” Logan widens his eyes. “Has hell frozen over? Because I'm pretty sure this is the first time Piz and I have ever agreed on anything."

Veronica turns on him, arms crossed and glaring. "Thanks for the backup, B _estie._ "

"Thanks for blowing me off, for no reason, _B.F.F_." He over-enunciates each letter.

She takes a step closer, eyes narrowing. Pokes him in the chest. "Thanks for dating an insecure bitch, who's threatened by our friendship, _Amigo._ "

"And thank _you_ for dating a passive-aggressive pissant, who..." Logan trails off. Grins. "Wait, is that why you've been sulking? Emily and I broke up over a week ago."

"Really? And you didn't think to tell—"

"Will you both just _SHUT UP?_ "

Shocked silent, Logan and Veronica both turn to look up the stairs.

Piz’s face is an unnatural shade of scarlet. Or is it crimson? Logan can never remember which is which. "We were in the _middle of something!"_

"I'm pretty sure I was at the end."

"You know what? This!" Piz sweeps an arm out in front of him. "Right here. This is why nobody wants to marry you."

"Ex _cuse_ me?"

Veronica’s expression could only be described as vicious, lethal. _Bloodthirsty._

Up close, Logan can see her nostrils flaring. She may or may not be on the verge of charging at the fucker. Just in case, he clears a path for her, kicking her basket into his kitchen, and moving down one step, behind her.

But Piz is just getting started. "You're so afraid of commitment, if I even hint about our future, you start picking fights."

"Please let me kick his ass this time,” Logan murmurs next to her ear. “I'll never have a better excuse."

She answers with a tiny shake of the head. “He’s not worth it.”

Piz shifts his ire to Logan. "And that goes for you, too. Both of you."

"Why the hell would I want to get married?"

"You're _already_ married.”

Logan’s brows lower and he tilts his head in confusion. Veronica squints, lips pulled back, as if trying to read small-print.

Piz rolls his eyes, put-out at having to explain his joke. “To each other."

"Ewww." Her nose wrinkles. "Gross."

"Take that back!" Logan says. He’s speaking to Piz, but Veronica can shut the fuck up, too.

_I'll show you gross._

"Oh come on." Piz laughs, sharp and bitter. "You're like this dysfunctional old couple who's been married for fifty years. You can’t live together. You can’t live apart. All you do is squabble, but God forbid, anyone else says, _‘You’re right about him’_ , or validates your complaints.”

Logan frowns, crosses his arms over his chest. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

"You adopted a dog together!"

"So?" Veronica crosses her own arms, mirroring Logan. A united front.

"While _WE_ were dating."

"Pony’s a very good girl." Logan says. “And she needed a mother.”

“Don’t waste your breath explaining,” Veronica shifts position, backing up to lean against the wall, meeting Logan’s gaze. “He’ll never understand what it’s like to grow up in a broken home.”

“Sure, attack my upbringing, like always.” Piz’s voice is becoming increasingly shrill. He gesticulates wildly. "And are we even going to _address_ the fact that Logan is standing there, on our communal staircase, _naked_?"

Logan glances down at his black-and-gray striped boxer briefs. Looks back up. "I'm not naked."

"Please." Veronica shakes her head, eyes rolled to the ceiling. "We've been friends since we were twelve. I've seen him in his underwear hundreds of times."

"I'd guesstimate closer to thirty."

"I've seen him in less than that."

"Really?" Logan lifts an eyebrow. "One of my drunken, party stripteases?"

"No..." She tilts her head, intrigued. "But I can't wait to hear that story. I meant that tiny blue Speedo."

"Oh...right. Your loss." He sighs. "I’ve seen _you_ in even less than that.”

“Less than a Speedo would be completely naked.”

Logan bobs his eyebrows, once.

“You’re full of shit. You have not!”

He only shrugs, his lips curling into an enigmatic smile.

"Wait. Now I need to know...what song did you strip to?"

"Which time?"

"JEE-SUS!" Piz throws his hands up in disgust. He swallows, breathes in and out, as if trying to get his temper under control. When he speaks again, it's through gritted teeth. "Veronica? Can we please discuss this upstairs? Alone?"

"What are you not comprehending? There's nothing left to discuss.”

“Hey, man. Not to change the subject, but I don’t think it’s normal for forehead veins to twitch like that.” Logan helpfully points to the matching spot on his own face. “You should get that checked out by a doctor.”

Piz ignores him. "I have plenty left to discuss.”

“You always do. Save it for your radio show.”

“Veronica, either you come back up here, _right now_ , and communicate with me like an adult, or it’s over.”

She touches her bottom lip, pretending to consider. "I'll take what’s behind door number two, Bob."

"Wait a second." Logan says.

Piz recoils, clearly not expecting her to call his bluff. Swallowing heavily, he says, "Fine. Well, I guess you’ve made your choice."

"Hold on. Time out.” Logan makes a “T” with his hands. “It's really _not_ fine."

“Who even asked you?” she snarls.

"We’re quarantined, Veronica.” He speaks slowly, because if that’s not freaking obvious, it should be. “You can’t just dump your live-in boyfriend in the middle of a pandemic.”

"Watch me," Her chin lifts. _Is that a dare?_

"And where exactly are you supposed to live?"

The moment the question leaves his mouth, Logan wishes he could take it back. Warning sirens flash in his brain.

_Danger! Danger! Abort!_

Veronica’s smile is pure sweetness, but he can _feel_ the evil lingering underneath it. "With you, of course, Bestie."

"Excuse me?”

Maybe he misheard. She couldn’t have said...

Her smile spreads even wider.

“Nope!” Logan raises his right hand, warding her off, like the she-devil she is. Shakes his head emphatically. “Huh-uh. Nope. That’s not going to happen.”

"Why not? I’ve been social distancing. You’ve been social distancing. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve postponed the The Walk of Shame Parade for almost a month now.”

He sighs. "I really hate that term. What's so shameful about having great sex?"

"I wouldn't know." Veronica aims a pointed glare up at her boyfriend.

Piz's eyes bulge in fury. His lips move, but no sound comes out. As if the English language does not contain sufficient words to voice his outrage.

"If you need to call it anything, call it the Walk of Satisfaction." Logan crosses his arms over his chest, lays a finger on his chin. "Although, technically, it's more of a limp."

Veronica groans and retrieves her basket from inside the kitchen doorway. "Can we _Oooh_ and _Ahhh_ over your sexual prowess tomorrow? It's kind of late, and I'd love to get some sleep before the sun rises."

"Don't let me stop you.” Logan gestures up the stairs. “Your apartment awaits."

"It's not my apartment. Piz can have it."

“Like HELL, he can!”

Piz shrinks back into his doorway. “You can’t kick me out of my home in the middle of a pandemic.”

“Try to stop me.” Logan climbs one step. Another.

“Stay back! If you come any closer, I’ll call the police!”

Veronica grabs Logan’s arm. “Please. Just..let him stay for now. We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

"That's not how this works." He shrugs off her hand. "I purchased this dump so you could afford to pay off your school loans on a P.I.’s salary. Your _drastically-reduced_ rent is non-transferable. He’s not even on the damn lease!"

"Logan.” Her voice holds a warning. “Either _I_ move in with you, or Piz does."

_Oh, that’s just playing dirty._

“Can’t we just murder him and bury the body?” he whines.

She pretends to consider the idea. “The raccoons would just dig him back up.”

_Stupid Swiper! Okay, she has a point._

"Fine! Welcome home, _Roomie,_ ” He snaps. Swinging an arm around Veronica, he grabs the doorknob, dragging them both into his kitchen. "Later, Piz."

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Logan twists the lock. Pauses there, banging his head against the door four to twelve times. For emphasis.

Pony pads over, leans against his leg, and wags hopefully.

“Who’s a Good Girl?” Logan scratches her on the head, grabs the treat jar from its shelf. “What’ll it be? Bacon flavor or pepperoni?”

She wags her tail even harder.

“Both? Great choice!” Logan tosses her one of each, sets-aside an extra treat for later, and returns the jar to its home.

He finds Veronica in front of the refrigerator, rooting through its contents.

At two freaking A.M.

“Just make yourself at home.”

“Plan to.”

“Hey, maybe you can go stay with Keith?”

“Can’t.” She inspects a package of cubed gouda and puts it back. “Crime doesn’t stop for a pandemic, and county sheriffs don’t get to quarantine.”

“What about Lilly?”

Veronica pulls her face out of the fridge just long enough to shoot him an _‘are you stupid?_ ’ look over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Can you even imagine living with Lilly?”

“Um...yeah?” Logan sighs. “Multiple times. She wasn’t a _terrible_ roommate. Other than the whole _chronic infidelity_ thing.”

“This is expired.” Veronica passes him a small container of Greek yogurt with honey. “And that was different. You were her lover. Imagine trying to live with her, platonically.”

“Well, I imagine the cheating would hurt a lot less.” He pops the dog-proof lid on the trash-can and tosses the yogurt in.

Veronica turns around, a bag of green, seedless grapes in her hand. “You haven’t heard about Paolo?”

“Who’s that?”

“Paulo...” She draws it out, like the name itself is juicy gossip. “...is the nineteen year-old underwear model Lilly and Liz brought into their home. And their marriage.”

“May God have mercy on his soul.”

Veronica pulls two grapes off their stems before handing the package over to him and turning back to the fridge. “Lilly says his stamina could rival even _yours_. I assume she meant it as a compliment?”

“She can keep her compliments.” He sounds sullen, even to his own ears. “So, you’re saying you simply can’t live in a den of iniquity?”

“ _Her_ den? No thanks! But a dirty den of my own?” Veronica winks at him over her shoulder. “I could and I would.”

Yeah, he’s not even going to touch that one.

“You realize, I don’t have a guest room, right? The second bedroom is my office.”

He shoves a handful of grapes in his mouth, chews slowly.

"Yes, Logan. I’m aware.” She closes the fridge door, dropping packages of salami and cheese on the granite countertop. “I guess I’ll have to crash on your couch.”

That’s dubious.

She’ll be accommodating for about as long as it takes to get him to lower his guard, and the next thing he knows, it’ll be _him_ tossing and turning on the couch while she hogs up his bed.

Either that, or she’ll draw up a rotating bed schedule, his sleep issues be damned.

_Yeah. Piz needs to go. Now._

Logan grabs his notebook and pen, and flips it open to Mary’s list.

**#6 How can I evict a tenant during quarantine? Are all hotels closed? Temporary housing? Find a way to get him out!**

Shoving it back in the drawer, he asks, “So? Piz must’ve really fucked up this time."

Veronica grabs two ocean-toned plates from the cabinet and a loaf of Deli Italian from the bread box. Untwists the green tie. "Piz is the most idiotic, obnoxious, clueless..." Heavy sigh. "He gave away my toilet paper."

"He _what?"_

"I went to change the roll, and there were only six left."

"Okay?".

"I stocked up at Costco.” She answers through clenched teeth as she places a slice of bread on each plate. “Apparently, the other guys at the radio station didn't think to prepare for quarantine, so Piz thought he would just... _share the love._ Or something.”

“Bastard!”

Logan snacks on more grapes, while Veronica tops the bread with salami, peels off another slice and tosses it to Pony. She places a piece of provolone on one sandwich, cheddar on the other. Covers each with a second piece of bread, and cuts them diagonally.

Grabbing both plates, she carries them into the dining room.

_Oh. Was I supposed to follow or something?_

He snags two ice cold waters from the fridge, stashes the grapes, and trails after her.

Veronica sits at the head of the table, crumbs dotting her gray tank top, as she inhales her sandwich.

She gestures to the second plate, diagonal from her. “Provolone. Just like you like it.”

_We’ll see about that._

Logan takes a seat, visually inspecting the sandwich. It _appears_ normal.

Spinning the lazy Susan centerpiece, he grabs two napkins from the chrome holder, and passes one to her.

“So, I guess the AC’s out in _both_ apartments.” She fans her face, vigorously.

“And rather than just come downstairs and ask me about it, you chose to suffer in silence?”

She shrugs. “You know me.”

“Better than anyone.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve called my AC guy like six times. He just sends me to voicemail now.”

“You should let Mary handle it.” Veronica speaks with her mouth full. She chews and swallows, snatches one of the water bottles from his hand. “She’s a miracle worker.”

“That’s the plan.”

Logan carefully peels the crusts off his sandwich, tosses one to Pony, and takes a bite. Hums in appreciation.

It’s just right, tonight. Either he’s running low on salami, or for once, she wasn’t in the mood for two inches of meat.

_Which would track. Her dumping Piz, and all._

He takes another bite, laughing softly to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

“It’s just, I’ve been trying to get you to dump that prick since the day you moved him in. He’s just so loud and annoying, and passive-agressive. And you end up breaking up with him over a package of toilet paper?”

“A package?” She scoffs. “More like ninety-something rolls.”

Logan gasps, covering his mouth in faux disgust. "Are you...a _hoarder_?"

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.” Veronica picks up the second half of her sandwich, points it at him as she speaks. “Have you been online recently? The grocery stores are entirely cleaned out.”

“I’ve seen the photos.”

“Well, not all of us have book deals and super-competent personal assistants to handle our every need. When _we_ run out of toilet paper, we’re fucked.”

“Fair enough.” Logan stands up. “Can I show you something?”

“I’m eating.”

“Just for a second. C’mon.” He crosses the room to the hallway, Veronica reluctantly following.

Placing his hand on the doorknob for the closet under the stairs, he pauses. “This stays just between you and me.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He turns the knob, opens the door.

Veronica gasps. “It was you!”

“Me?”

“Is that every roll of toilet paper in Neptune? And the hand sanitizer? And Clorox Wipes?”

“Super-competent personal assistants, for the win.” He closes the door. “Mary started stocking up in January.”

“That was awfully... _prescient_ of her,” Veronica says, as they return to the dining room. “But if you’re thinking a lifetime supply of Charmin Ultra Strong will convince me to go back upstairs to Piz, you’re high.”

“I wish I’d thought of that, but no. I was just trying to reassure you that your ass was covered.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “Literally.”

Logan wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a napkin. “God, it’s hot.”

He rounds the table and opens two driveway-facing windows. The chemical scent of blacktop floats in but, tragically, not a breeze.

Slumping back into his chair, he presses his water bottle to each side of his face before taking a long, satisfying, gulp.

What’s frustrating, is that he can’t even get a crossbreeze going. The giant picture windows on either side of the living room’s front door don’t open, and with the external staircase running through the center of the house, dividing bedrooms and bath from kitchen and dining room, there isn’t a single, functional window in the house that directly faces another one.

Upstairs, Piz stomps across the dining room, and Veronica’s gaze lifts to the ceiling. She speaks softly. “I didn’t really dump him over the toilet paper.”

“You don’t say.”

“It’s just…the constant complaints and nitpicking. His little jabs at you, and our friendship. And if I had to be quarantined with him and that nasal voice for one more minute, I was going to end up murdering him.”

“I’m still not ruling out that option,” Logan glares upward. “So, how do we get your apartment back?”

“Short of waiting for quarantine to end?”

Taking a bite of his sandwich, he chews and swallows, washing it down a sip of water. “Short of waiting _24 hours_. You know I have no interest in having a roommate.”

“Poor poor Logan,” Veronica coos, with a condescending little pat on his forearm. “Forced to share your apartment with your favorite person in the world.”

“You’re wrong. There’s nothing forced about the four glorious days per week I share with Pony Girl.”

He grabs another small piece of crust and holds it right above the dog’s nose. She obediently sits, and he allows her to gently take it from his fingers. _Good girl._

Veronica stares at him, unamused.

He makes an _Oops_ face. “I hope you weren’t talking about yourself. You’re just the jerk who wants to turn my life upside down after ignoring me for a whole month.”

“Turn your life upside down? Could you be more dramatic?”

“I was raised by a soap opera vixen.” When she stares blankly, he clarifies. “The answer is yes. I can be _much much_ more dramatic.”

“Ah yes…I’m familiar with your work. And to think, the hands haven’t even started flailing yet.”

“Better?” He flails his right hand, one finger, specifically. “Come on, Veronica. You know how I need my space. That’s why we live _here_ , instead of some huge beach house, where the AC always works and I can surf right from my backyard.”

“I can’t afford half the rent on a beach house.”

_And you can’t afford half the mortgage here, either, but we make do._

“I wasn’t offering.”

Veronica acknowledges this with a tight nod. “So, were you planning on telling me what happened with Emily?”

“Yes, I was. Once you stopped being a shitty friend.”

Illustrating his point, she plays a tiny, invisible, violin.

“Emily dumped me.”

“For?”

Logan sighs. “She wanted us to quarantine together. I didn’t.”

“So she gave you an ultimatum?” Her smile is downright gleeful. “And you called her bluff?”

“More or less. Bet that makes _you_ ecstatic.”

“Me?” She pretends to be hurt. “As long as she makes you happy--”

“Don’t bullshit me, Veronica.” Logan waggles a finger at her. “Emily told me all about your little conversation in the driveway.”

“Oh, did she?” Veronica leans back in her chair, arms crossed. _‘I can’t wait to hear this’_.

“You dared her to force me to choose between you two.” Logan raises an eyebrow, challenging her to deny it.

“That bitch!” Veronica shakes her head in amused indignance. “Emily approached _me_ , insinuating it was time for me to grow up and stop letting you take care of me.”

“I don’t take care of you.”

“You and I know that. She got it in her head somehow that you’re some hapless sugar daddy that I use and mooch off.” Veronica runs her thumb through a spot of condensation on the table.

Logan grabs another napkin from the holder, and hands it to her.

_Don’t make water rings on my table._

Veronica wipes up the water, and holds up the napkin. _Happy now?_

He lifts the left corner of his mouth, acknowledging her bare minimum effort.

“Then she must think I’m the world’s biggest sucker. A sugar daddy would at least get something out of the arrangement.”

“That’s what I told her.”

Logan guzzles down the rest of his water. “So _she_ pissed you off, and you spent the next month punishing _me_?”

“I was giving you space.”

“Ohhhh, the irony.” Logan stares pointedly.

She ignores the dig. “Anyway, I told Emily that if she had a problem with me, she could feel free to take it up with you. But if it came down to a choice, it wouldn’t be her.”

“Dammit, Veronica!” He drops his head into his hands. Rubs at his temples.

“What? Was I lying?”

“That’s not the point! How am I ever supposed to make a relationship last, when you keep asserting your dominance over all my girlfriends?”

“That’s not what--”

“Yes it is.” Logan interrupts her. “Call it marking your territory, if you want. You just have to make sure they know where they stand in the hierarchy.”

“Forget about me!” Veronica fires back. “How are you supposed to share your life with anyone, when you can’t even share your apartment? I did you a _favor_ , Logan.”

“Yeah. Real big favor.” He stands, picks up his plate, and shoves in his chair. Gives her a sarcastic salute. “Thanks a lot.”

Veronica pushes back her chair to follow, but something makes her stop. For once, she allows him to storm off without getting the last word.

In the kitchen, Logan hands the second half of his sandwich to Pony, rinses his plate, and leaves it in the sink for tomorrow. Tosses his water bottle in recycling.

Veronica is still working on her sandwich as he crosses back through the dining room to the hallway. From the linen closet, he grabs an extra pillow, a featherweight velour blanket and a set of crisp cotton sheets.

If the dining room was hot, the living room is the tenth circle of hell. Logan pulls the chain for the ceiling fan, but even on high speed, it barely makes a dent in the heat. Regardless, he shimmies the heavy leather couch directly underneath the blades, and goes to work, spreading out sheets.

Veronica joins him. “I thought this was a sofa bed.”

“A sofa bed is just an invitation for unwanted guests.” He scowls, continuing to smooth out the sheet and tucking excess fabric into the crevice between the seat and back.

“Logan, I can’t sleep in here. It’s too hot.”

“Then go sleep in your apartment.”

She ignores his helpful suggestion.

Logan sighs. “How is this any different than upstairs? Heat rises, so your apartment must be twice as hot.”

“Not with an industrial strength fan aimed right at my bed.”

“So, go bring that down.”

“And see Piz again?”

“Sounds like a _YOU_ problem.” He shrugs and drapes the blanket over the back of the couch. “I suppose you could open the front door. The lock on the screen door is pretty sturdy.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He bristles at the defeated tone in her voice. It’s not his fault she picked the worst week in history to dump her boyfriend. “Best of luck figuring something out. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Logan taps the side of his thigh, and Pony gets up, following him into his bedroom. Closing the door, he waits until she’s settled comfortably on her red, memory-foam dog bed before turning off the lights.

_Alone at last!_

Between the blackout shades and the electrical tape covering the power-indicator lights on all cords and devices, his room is a deep, velvety black.

He flops down onto his bed, not bothering to slide under the sheets. Revels in the sensation of frigid air blasting across his skin.

Is Veronica right about him?

Possibly.

 _Probably_.

Maybe he _is_ an asshole who gets cold feet every time a woman wants to move forward into the cohabitation stage.

Maybe something broke in him that day six years ago, when he came home to find Lilly fucking Weevil Navarro in the bed HE’D spent months building for her. Maybe home is the only sense of _permanence_ available to him, and he can’t trust any woman not to take that away.

Maybe he’s completely screwed in the head.

Regardless of the reason, it’s _his_ issue to deal with. Not Veronica’s.

From the purely-physical to shopping for an engagement ring, Logan’s been involved in his fair share of relationships in the years since he left Lilly.

Whether by accident, or design, with malice or well-intentioned, Veronica has had a finger in the destruction of each and every one of those relationships.

_Fuck._

Was Emily right? Is Veronica a menace who ruins everything good in his life? And if so, what should he do about it?

Evicting her is a non-starter. As long as she lives, the upstairs apartment is hers.

Is it time for _him_ to move out, instead? To purchase that beach house he’s always imagined? Time for him to put up boundaries? To stop being available to her 24/7?

As if sensing his traitorous thoughts, Veronica shoves open his bedroom door and pokes her head in. “You DICK!”

“Go away, Veronica. I need my sleep.”

“I _knew_ you had air conditioning!”

_Whyyyyy?_

“It’s just a portable unit that vents through the window.”

“I don’t care if it’s on the ceiling. I need that air, now!”

The door closes, pitching the room back into darkness. Fabric rustles.

Logan’s mattress dips, and he can feel it shifting below him, as she makes her way across the king sized bed. Her hand is on his chest, and then she’s crawling right over top of him, a tangle of wet, bare skin.

He swats her on the ass. “Do I look like a fucking jungle gym? Get off me!”

“I want the side closer to the air conditioner.”

“Too bad! It’s my bed.”

“Don’t be a dick. I’m much smaller.” She settles on her back. “See? The cold air blows right over me and gets to you, anyway.”

She has a point, but he hates to let her win.

“What are you wearing? I just felt a lot more skin than I should’ve. And why are you wet?”

“My underwear and bra. And I sprayed myself with that water in the bathroom to cool down.”

Logan sighs heavily.

“Quit being a drama queen. It’s hotter than hell, and I have bikinis that cover way less skin than what I’m wearing now.”

“I thought women hated sleeping in bras.”

“We do, but I’m wearing a sports bra. Like a really short tank top with elastic at the bottom.”

“I know what a sports bra is.”

“Well, you asked.”

“Wait. _What_ water in the bathroom?”

“You know, that tall can of water? Looks like expensive hairspray?”

“My thermal spring water?” _What the fuck!_

“It’s. Water. Logan.”

“Tell that to my flawless complexion.”

“Really? You mean _I_ could be pretty, too?.”

“Or...you could just leave my stuff alone.”

“Yeah. Right.”

He changes the subject. “Have you cooled down enough?”

“I swear to God, Logan, if you want me out of this bed, you’re going to have to drag me, kicking and screaming.”

“Tempting, but I just wanted to get under the sheets. I’m starting to get cold.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Veronica stands up, long enough for Logan to shove the blanket down to the foot of the bed, then climbs under the sheets with him.

They lapse into silence, and he’s just beginning to doze off when she speaks again.

“Hey, Logan?”

“Logan’s not available right now. Please leave a message.”

“You were just fucking with Piz, earlier, right?”

“Every chance I can get.”

“When I mentioned your tiny blue Speedo, and you said you’d seen me in less?”

He chuckles.

“Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to answer with an evil laugh.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“Well then, I guess I am.”

“I knew it.”

“Because Veronica Mars knows everything.”

“Glad you’re finally admitting it.”

“And I know nothing at all.”

“Nada.”

“Except...I _do_ know that when you start a load of laundry, you like to get everything clean. Every. Last. Thing.”

Veronica is silent for several _long_ seconds.

“You spied on me?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice. I was just innocently lifting weights. You know, checking my form in the big mirror, and then suddenly there you were on the other side of the basement in all your...um... _glory_.”

“Shit! I didn’t know you were there.” Her voice is muffled, as if she’s speaking from behind her hands.

“Clearly.”

“For my next act, I will be dying of embarrassment. _Please_ , put me out of my misery.” She laugh-whines. “You could’ve _said_ something, you know. I’ve only done that a few times, and only when I had a bathrobe right there to put on.”

“Oh, I remember.” Logan snickers. “I set down my weights, and was about to tell you to put some fucking clothes on. You know, just to bust your chops. But then you bent _right_ over, and stuck your head in the dryer.”

“What do you mean, bent over?”

“I mean, _bent-over_ bent-over.”

Another long silence.

“Seriously, just murder me. Don’t even bother digging a grave. The racoons can have me.”

“At that point, I figured that announcing myself would be a very bad idea. I ducked back out of sight, you located your robe in the dryer, put it on, and headed back upstairs.”

“And you took an ice cold shower?”

Logan snorts. Admits nothing.

It’s not like he’s _never_ imagined fucking Veronica. She’s beautiful, brilliant, funny as hell, and has a gorgeous body. And on rare occasions - usually involving alcohol - his imagination can be a disobedient piece of shit.

_Like right now, for example._

His cock stiffens at the remembered image of her searching through the dryer, and the vanilla-coconut smell of her hair on the pillow next to him is not helping.

 _Fuck!_ Maybe _he’s_ the one who needs to be sprayed down with water.

“Well, thanks for not mentioning that incredibly humiliating event in front of Piz. I guess.”

Logan rolls onto his side, facing her. “What do you care? You’re done with Piz.”

“I am. But he noticed me coming back upstairs in my robe one night, and lectured me for a solid twenty-minutes. I’d hate for him to know he was right.”

“That’s on you. All you had to say was that you changed in the basement bathroom.”

He can sense her shrug in the dark. “Piz can be a jealous asshole. Especially when it comes to you.”

“Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.”

“He’s convinced you’re just biding your time to swoop in and steal me away from him. I guess occasionally - when he was being especially unbearable - I may have fed into his paranoia.”

 _Of course, you did._ Leave it to Veronica to make a difficult situation infinitely worse.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are such a bitch.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Touché.”

“You love me, anyway.”

Logan grins in the darkness. “No, _you_ love _me!_ ”

She breaks out her southern belle accent. “You’ve pined away for me, all these long years.”

“You kiss my portrait every night, before you go to sleep.”

“With tongue. And you wonder why Piz is so jealous?” Veronica reaches out, finds his chest and follows it up to his face. The bed shifts as she leans closer, and he feels her lips on him.

“Um...that wasn’t my portrait.”

“I was aiming for your cheek.”

“Well, you got my eyeball, instead. Thanks for the saliva.”

She giggles. “Night, Logan.”

“Night, Veronica”

Logan listens to the hum of the air conditioner, Pony’s quiet snores down on the floor. He feels boneless, relaxed in a way he rarely manages. His thoughts aren’t racing, for once, and he may actually get some sleep, after all.

“Hey Logan?”

 _Sigh._ “Can it wait until the morning?”

“No.” Facing him, Veronica locates his right hand in the dark, and weaves her fingers through his. “I just wanted to say...forget about Emily. Forget about Piz, and everyone else. They don’t matter. _We’re_ gonna be fine.”

“Yeah. I know we will.” His voice sounds like a soft caress. What’s that about?

“We’ve survived everything else. Murders, suicide, a bus crash...”

“...Kane siblings.”

“Yep. And we’ll survive being roomies during quarantine.”

“Or die trying,” Logan says.

He’s drifting off to sleep when he realizes she’s still holding his hand.

_That’s nice._


End file.
